


Happy Holidays

by froyobro



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Get-Together Fic, Happy Ending, Humor, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Lots of Symbolism, M/M, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Post TWS, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Tony Stark Is a Good Bro, fuck those movies am i right, hes a little confused and disillusioned, kind of non-religious Steve Rogers, only a lil, open end, trans fem original character cameo, want me to write more?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 14:11:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12961044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/froyobro/pseuds/froyobro
Summary: It's the holidays and Steve is Not Happy.Or, two years after TWS and Tony finds Bucky and Steve stops by Romania to say hi. (It was on the way you know, so he thought might as well!)





	Happy Holidays

**Author's Note:**

> HI!! So I loved writing this and it ends a little ambiguously. If you want me to write more let me know. Warnings for lots of PTSD. LOTS. Not a huge emphasis on Christmas, and I'm not Jewish but one of my close friends is, so she gave me tips. If anything is problematic, let me know please! Mature for the PTSD descriptions. No sexy times, but feel free to request! 
> 
> Happy holidays fam

Steve was sitting on a bench at East 48th and 3rd. He didn’t know how he got here, in the same way that you walk through a house party and find yourself in a closet that smells like dust and snow.

 

All he knew was that he looked through the festive windows and took turns when he wanted to, and it wasn’t Brooklyn, in fact nothing was Brooklyn, not the one he knew. He still knew how to find his way back to Stark’s, but to be honest he wouldn’t have cared if he couldn’t find his way through a hole in the wall.

 

Across the street was a homeless woman, black, trans, old, freezing. It was a few days until Christmas. Her sign read in wobbly letters, “Cold on the Holidays. Anything Helps.”

Steve watched her for a long time.

 

He knew people were out looking for him, probably already found him because he hadn’t run very fast and technology was ridiculous nowadays. Sliced bread was created ten years after he was born, and  _that_ was hard enough to adjust to, and now he had to deal with talking buildings and murderous robots.

 

Stark is probably keeping watch, but not approaching. Good.

 

Steve adjusted his nondescript hat and fixed his collar before crossing the street.

“Hi, ma’am.”

 

She shot her head up, like a rooster cocking its head. She said nothing.

“Do you need a place to stay?”

 

He waited for a response, but there was none. Her eyes were blank, hopeless. Wrinkles were etched into her face like a kid who pressed too hard on the paper with a colored pencil.

 

“Tony Stark has a free shelter with food and running water near his building, if you need it. It’s not far, and everyone is welcome.” He paused. “It’s safe.”

 

Her head twitched.

 

Steve placed two-hundred dollars in the bright purple purse in front of her and walked away.

 

***

 

Stark was in his apartment when he came back.

 

“Look, I—“

 

“It’s okay, Tony,” Steve interjected. Tony didn’t like to apologize, and Steve wasn’t in the mood to hear him work his way up to it. “I just needed to walk it off.”

 

Tony nodded, scratching the back of his hair. It made that sound like sandpaper rubbing against a car door. (Bucky had worked at the docks, but sometimes he got odd jobs at the shop down the street, too. Steve loved watching him fiddle with engines, when his jaw clenched and his biceps popped. He loved the smell of Joe’s Auto Parts, too. There’s something about gasoline that—)

 

“We can go now if you want.”

 

Steve grunted. His chest swelled up with anxiety, a balloon expanding and pushing at his ribcage until eventually it would burst.

 

“The jet’s ready. We’d be there in eight hours, tops.”

 

Steve plopped into the armchair by the window, rubbing his forehead.

 

Tony sat on the couch across and stared, for once keeping his mouth shut.

 

Outside, taxis beeped. Clouds set a somber mood over the city. Christmas lights sparkled, even during the day. A waste of electricity, in Steve’s opinion.

 

Finally, Steve cleared his throat. He got up and grabbed his jacket and wallet and didn’t have to look back to know Tony was on his heels.

 

He pressed the elevator button to the roof and crossed his arms.

 

“Okay,” Tony said. “Okay.”

 

***

 

Romania smelled like spices. Lavendar, thyme, cimbru. It also smelled like shit, when you passed certain alleyways or, on the train, certain towns.

 

Tony told him not to trust the shrimp.

 

Steve told him to shut up.

 

The apartment was...well.

 

“Barnes is real humble, isn’t he?” Tony remarked with a smirk.

 

Steve glared at him. “Stay down here.”

 

Tony grabbed him by the shoulder before he walked in the building. “Listen. Like your pal Sammy said: he might not remember you. He might try to kill you.” He glanced back at Happy. “We could ask Hap to bring your shield.”

 

“I got this, Tony. Thank you.” He shrugged out of his grip and opened the door.

 

***

 

When he got to the thirteenth floor (real lucky number, Barnes), he momentarily thought back to his old self. Asthmatic Stevie would have died by the fourth staircase. He let himself smile for a little bit before remembering where he was, what he was about to do.

 

Who he was about to see.

 

Before he could even knock, the door swung open and a whirring arm pressed his throat to the wall. Steve’s body tensed defensively, but instead of pushing away like he instinctively began to do, he forced his stance to be nonthreatening.

 

Bucky’s eyes helped to calm him a little. Eyebrows furrowed, dark under-eye circles defined, but grey eyes clear. Like he’s awake, conscious.

 

Alive.

 

Steve felt his eyes start to prickle, either because of the lack of oxygen or because of his best friend. Probably both.

 

When he started seeing spots, his eyes bulged and he choked. He was about to actually shove Bucky away when the arm let him drop to the ground.

 

Steve clutched his neck and took large, heaving breaths. Filling up that chest balloon.

Bucky stood a good meter away and scrutinized the man in a near ball on the ground in front of his room.

_Stevie, Steve, Steven Grant Rogers. Mission._

 

No.

 

After a minute or so, Steve stood up slowly. There was no more red around his neck.

 

“Hey, Buck.” He coughed.

 

Bucky’s head twitched. His eyelid fluttered. “Not Buck. James.”

 

Steve nodded. “James.” Trying to get used to the word in his mouth.

 

Bucky grunted. Huffed. “I—I mean. Yes. I’m Bucky. I’m James Buchanan Barnes.” Twitched. “Bucky.” Paused. “It’s all a little jumbled, you know?”

 

Steve nodded.

 

“Sorry for choking you.” Bucky wouldn’t look him in the eye. In fact, not in his direction at all. The beige wall seemed incredibly interesting.

 

”I caught you off guard. I understand.”

 

“You were in the war too,” Bucky asked out of nowhere.

 

Steve nodded.

 

It was silent for a little bit. Steve couldn’t stop staring. Bucky—James—couldn’t start.

 

“Why are you here?” Bucky didn’t care about the how, since he knew it was because of the man whose parents he’d killed.

_Howard. Your friend. You’re a monster._

 

He twitched.

 

Steve shrugged. “Needed to make sure you were okay.”

 

Bucky nodded. Twitched. He felt embarrassed about his tics, in public, in private.

 

Especially in front of Steve.

 

“What do we do from here?” Bucky asked. He finally looked at him. Straight on. Face it, Barnes. Face  _him._

 

“Coffee?” Steve shrugged, his hands in his pockets. His ears turned a little pink.

 

Bucky pushed past him to his room surprisingly fast. He waited at the door and grunted.

Steve took it for what it was and followed him in. The room was neat. He must have made cookies within the last week, it smelled like dough and chocolate. His cot—not a bed—was in the corner, a worn quilt bunched at the end. On top of the yellowed refrigerator was a pile of notebooks, thick and thin, pages with different things stuffed between them.

 

Steve didn’t want to touch anything. It was so peaceful, yet fragile. Steve felt like he could shatter this haven Bucky made for himself, as if his presence was a jack hammer against a thin ball of ice.

 

Bucky gestured to one of the chairs at the table and Steve obligingly sat, moving slowly so the other man could easily track his movements. Bucky walked into the kitchen, making sure the whole time that his back was not to Steve.

 

Steve just thought it was because he was afraid of getting jumped.

 

Bucky twitched as he finished brewing the coffee on a small pot. He set a metal mug and a Styrofoam cup from a Romanian coffee shop on the table and poured some in each. He grabbed four sugars and two creams, giving them all to Steve.

 

“You...” Steve was speechless for a moment, staring at Bucky in shock. “You remember how I like my coffee.”

 

Bucky twitched and huffed a little. He looked deep in his cup, a fortune teller reading tea leaves. “Always thought that was too much sugar. Right?”

 

Steve chuckled. Bucky twitched. “You only told me a million times a day.”

 

Bucky almost smiled. “Y—your mom’s name... was Sarah.” His brows furrowed and he had a particularly violent spasm, but he pushed through it. “You used to wear newspapers in your shoes.”

 

“Cuz they were your old ones, mine ripped because I was running from Tommy Krizowski again.”

 

“You tripped on a rock. Fucking dumb ass.” Bucky snorted, then stood up straighter. New memories. Process.

 

Bucky pulled a notebook out of his pocket and began to furiously scribble. Steve watched, not knowing what he was feeling.

 

He knew he was happy to see Bucky, to see him remembering something. His mom.

Steve’s eyes softened as he turned back time. Small things—the cottony fabric of her worn light blue dress, the shine of her blonde hair when the sun was out, her laugh when they sat on the small balcony.

 

Her funeral.

 

He focused back in on Bucky. Still writing so hard Steve was surprised the pencil didn’t go through the cardboard cover.

 

Bucky stopped suddenly, read over the page, and shuddered. His eyes drooped.

“I need to sleep,” He abruptly stood up and walked to the cot. Steve wasn’t sure what to—

 

“You can come back tomorrow at the same time.”

 

Bucky stood by his bed and his eyes followed as Steve walked out, stopping at the door. “Bye, James.”

 

Bucky didn’t correct him. He just watched the door shut, plopped on the bed, and tried to quiet his sobs and stop the shivering. Eventually he fell off to sleep.

 

***

 

Tony picked a crazy nice hotel. Steve rolled his eyes. The beds had chocolate on the pillows.

 

“Thanks for getting two beds this time,” Steve commented.

 

Tony grinned. “That was a one-time thing, bad planning on Happy’s part.”

 

“Mmhmm,” Steve muttered critically into his pillow. Then he slept.

 

“Nite, Capsicle.”

 

Tony pulled out his laptop. Typed up a storm. Checked Barnes’s status.

 

There are no cameras IN the room, per se. Just a few dozen in the hallways and staircases of the apartment. Minimal invasion of privacy. Guy only left his room for food and his job—Origo, semi-decent coffee shop in Bucharest.

 

He worked in the back because his boss said that the arm would freak people out. Not to mention the extreme tics—due to PTSD, the combatted brainwashing, and other neurological disorders probably caused by fucking Hydra.

 

He didn’t talk to many people unless he had to—his boss, coworkers, grocers.

 

Some weeks he went off the grid completely. Corresponding with the destruction of certain Hydra bases in Europe.

 

He was dealing, which was amazing.

 

Tony just didn’t understand why his programming couldn’t be broken by seeing his father’s face instead of Steve’s.

 

***

 

The next day Steve was back at three o’clock on the dot. He didn’t knock, he didn’t need to. Bucky had the same super soldier hearing.

 

Bucky opened the door and stood there, waiting for Steve to come in.

 

There was coffee on the table again, the metal mug and another Styrofoam cup. Steve took a seat and wrapped his hands around the mug to take in the heat. It was snowing in Romania today and he couldn’t feel his nose.

 

Bucky used to kiss it—

 

Barnes cleared his throat. “Can you tell me about my mom and sister? I can’t remember them.” He looked embarrassed saying that. “I should remember them, but I don’t.”

 

Steve started smiling already. “Oh man.” He leaned forward, hands splayed so he could gesticulate. “Okay, so your mom was incredibly Jewish. Even during the Depression, she made the meanest matzo ball soup. On special occasions she’d make challah, and insist I take some home. Rebecca—your sister,” Steve laughed, “She worshipped you. I thought she was crazy for that.”

 

Bucky huffed, but it wasn’t the tic. Like a laugh within a breath of air.

 

“They both had dark hair like you, but your mom had brown eyes. Rebecca liked to play with your old toy cars, and you used to read her your dumb science fiction books.”

 

Bucky’s eyes glazed over. He looked like he was in a different world. Steve didn’t know what to do, so he continued.

 

“Whenever we’d have sleepovers—the couch cushions on the floor you know?—Becca always ended up somewhere on the floor with us, even though we’d told her to leave us alone and stayed up late to make sure she didn’t come near.”

 

Bucky twitched.

 

“...Buck?”

 

“Continue. Please.”

 

Steve looked worried, but cleared his throat. “One time, you came home with a bloody nose and your mom yelled your ear off and then when I came over with a black eye and a baby tooth knocked out, she yelled  _my_ ear off. By the way, Rebecca hated blood. One time she threw up when she saw my face. Really boosted my self-esteem.” Steve laughed self-deprecatingly.

 

“You’re always gorgeous, Stevie. She doesn’t know what—“ Bucky physically jerked, snapping himself out. He clutched at his head, eyes screwed shut. “Fuck!”

 

“Bucky, what do I—“

 

“Get out! GET OUT!”

 

Steve crumbled. He got up and whispered, “I’m sorry,” before shutting the door and running down the stairs.

 

Bucky fell to the floor, fisting his hair. Pierce would fist his hair, drag him—

he bit his lip so hard he could taste copper on his tongue.

 

***

 

“You know,” Tony said. “Christmas is in two days.”

 

Steve grunted. He was staring out the window, sitting on the bed with a towel around his waist, water droplets dripping down his back. Tony thought that was totally inconsiderate and uncool, it didn’t matter if he was having a manly dissociation moment or not.

 

“Do you want to...stay here...for Christmas?” Tony asked.

 

Steve shrugged. His back muscles— _THINK OF PEPPER._

 

“Well, I’m leaving tonight to spend Christmas with my wife.”

 

“You guys aren’t married.”

 

“Just makin’ sure you’re still there, Encino Man.”

 

A beat of silence.

 

“I think I’ll stay here, if that’s all right with you.”

 

“Uh, yeah! Totally.” Why was this guy such a sad human being? Spending Christmas in a hotel, alone? In a foreign country? Doing  _nothing?_

 

Tony was ready an hour later, and Steve finally changed. He walked Tony out and gave him a hug at the entrance of the hotel. A big ole bear hug. Tony tried not to hug too tightly back; that would look desperate. “Thank you for everything, Tony. Merry Christmas.”

 

Tony reluctantly detached himself and walked backwards to his car. “Same to you, Rogers.”

 

***

 

Bucky dreamt of kissing. Most of the time he had nightmares that shocked him into insomnia for days on end, but when he managed a dream, he dreamt of kissing. And records. Ella Fitzgerald; Jo Stafford; Billie Holiday.

 

Dorothy Reynolds; Caroline Van Dyke; A short black man in a seedy alleyway.

 

Steve Rogers.

 

He knew the first two were real. The third seemed likely. Steve, though...

 

He hoped he didn’t scare him away. He probably did. What if he didn’t come back?

 

He got up at eight and went to work. The walk wasn’t too long, and he had enough weapons on him that he didn’t need to worry. Still, he imagined at every corner an army of Hydra led by Pierce like thousands of ants bursting out of their hills, pincers snapping with finality.

He took a deep breath when he opened the back door of the coffee shop. Relative safety.

 

He put his time card in the slot and started moving boxes.

 

Ate a lunch of turkey and lettuce sandwich at noon.

 

Left at two.

 

Waited for an hour for Steve.

 

The weather grew worse outside, swirling like a kid shaking a snow globe. What if the globe dropped? He felt like it would. Like it already had. Like it was, all around him, right now.

 

Then steps came up the stairs and stopped outside his door and Bucky’s heart stopped in his throat.

 

Instant assessment: unknown on the other side. Wide, heavy gait: male.

 

Prepare to fight.

 

Bucky twitched and looked through the eye hole before opening the door hurriedly.

 

“Steve.”

 

He smiled, albeit a little bashfully. A lot ashamedly. “Hi.”

 

Bucky grunted, signaling the Captain to enter. When safely inside, Bucky shut the door with finality. He felt a good thing when Steve was around, even if he couldn’t identify it. He wanted to keep Steve forever, and he wanted to push him so far away that they would never cross paths again.

 

He settled for locking the door and sitting across from him.

 

“I’m—“

 

“I didn’t—“

 

Steve laughed nervously. “Sorry, you first.”

 

Bucky paused, scrutinizing Steve. The blond tried not to squirm under that gaze. “I wanted to say sorry for freaking out yesterday. I’m...happy you came back.” Bucky twitched.

 

Steve looked down at his hands. His turn. He had trouble spitting out the words, in fear that it would start another episode. “I didn’t know what would set you off. I still don’t. I don’t want to hurt you. And don’t—don’t apologize, please.” Steve stared into him, earnest. “Just tell me how to help, to make it better.”

 

Without thinking, Bucky snapped, “You can’t fix me, Rogers.” He grunted, huffed. Twitched. Then he winced, processing his harsh tone. “I—“

 

“You’re right,” Steve said, cheeks going red. “I’m sorry.”

 

Bucky grunted in frustration. “No, I just—“ Steve didn’t try interrupting him while he looked for the right words. “I don’t think you  _can_ help. No one can.  _I_ don’t even know how to figure this _—“_ he gestured to his head, “—out.”

 

Steve nodded, keeping quiet. Bucky glared. “What.”

 

“No, no, it’s nothing—“

 

“ _Rogers.”_

 

Steve grinned a little, like he was riling up the Barnes from a million years ago. “I think you’re full of horse shit, is all.”

 

Bucky laughed. Actually laughed. It only lasted for a few seconds, but it made Steve smile so hard his face hurt.

 

“Whatever,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head. “I’m making tea today.”

 

“Black or green?”

 

“Green is better for you.”

 

A few minutes later, Steve was handed the metal tin and Bucky took a styrofoam. He wrinkled his nose. “Buck, this is black tea.”

 

“And?”

 

“You said...”

 

Bucky sipped his tea with an eyebrow raised. Steve rolled his eyes, then promptly dumped about twelve packets of sugar into his mug.

 

***

 

“So,” Steve said. “What are some boundaries?”

 

They were sitting on a ledge on the outside of the apartment throwing snowballs down below.

 

Bucky twitched, then furrowed his eyebrows in thought. The metal arm made a whirring sound as he catapulted a snowball to the building across the street. A window shattered. Steve snickered.

 

“Some days I don’t like being called Bucky. Today isn’t one of those days.” Steve hummed in affirmation. “Um. No talk about Hydra. Or the helicarrier.” He paused, looked down at his hands so that Steve couldn’t see his face. “I can’t listen to Katy Perry either.”

 

Steve snorted before he thought. “S-sorry, I was just taken by surprise.”

 

Bucky blinked at him seriously. “What?”

 

Steve shrugged. “I—I shouldn’t have—“

 

“Katy Perry personally assaulted me, you know.”

 

Steve looked at Bucky in disbelief. “Wait. She’s a part of...”

 

Bucky grinned and Steve stopped talking. “She assaulted my ear drums. Can’t listen to her or I’ll go into a seizure.”

 

Steve laughed so hard he almost fell off the ledge. Bucky had to grasp his thin jacket. Should have bundled up, Stevie, it’s colder’n Antarctica out there—

 

Bucky got a face full of snow. He saw it coming, of course, but he let it happen because it felt natural to be like this with Steve.

 

“I don’t really like her either.”

 

“Did she assault you too?”

 

Steve poked his shoulder. “Don’t joke about that,” but he giggled through the delivery so it lost its message.

 

Bucky smiled a little before tucking his arms under his thighs. “More seriously, I can’t really handle the smell of oranges. I don’t drink milk. I can’t...go on trains. Um.” He twitched. “The sounds of fire, like crackling. And high screaming. Kids screaming. Um.” His eyelid fluttered and he started to grunt a few times in a row.

 

Steve sat up. “Let’s go inside and drink your horrible tea.”

 

“It’s horrible because yours is more sugar than water,” Bucky said without inflection, but got up nonetheless.

 

Steve walked him to the bed instead of the table, told him to sit down, and wrapped the quilt around him before getting up to shut the window. Bucky was really shivering.

 

“Should I go?”

 

“Y-y-you can if-f you want.” Bucky didn’t look at him, eyes focused on the metal mug.

 

“Do you want me to?”

 

“N-no.”

 

Steve stood there for a minute, unsure of what to do. In the end, he sat next to Bucky in silence, watching his hands shake less and less. Watching his throat move around the grunts that tapered off. Watching his eyelid stop fluttering and his head twitch at longer intervals.

 

Watching his head lower itself on Steve’s left shoulder. He smelled like plums. His hair tickled his nose.

 

Minutes or hours later, Steve woke lying on the bed, looking to the side to grey eyes blinking at him from the side. Bucky was a few inches away, only his right and Steve’s left arm touching.

“Sorry,” Steve muttered around cotton mouth and stood up. He wiped some drool off the side of his mouth and felt his skin grow warm.

 

Bucky himself looked like he just woke up. “It’s okay,” He responded. Throat scratchy.

 

“What do you dream about?” Bucky asked as Steve wrapped his scarf around his neck.

 

Steve turned back to Bucky and leaned against the table. Without missing a beat he replied, “Usually us as kids running through Brooklyn. Nightmares about the shit I’ve seen, the ice, losing yo—“ Steve clamped his mouth.

 

Bucky looked down at his hands. When he looked back up, Steve was gone.

 

***

 

It was Christmas morning and Steve was burning his back with the pressure and heat from the shower, sobbing openly because no one could hear him and fuck it, who cares if someone did hear him.

 

Then there was a knock on the door.

 

Steve instantly clamped his mouth shut and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around him as he looked for a weapon. Fuck, he didn’t want to fight naked and splotchy-faced.

 

He grabbed his cell phone and planned to throw it at his intruder to catch him/her/them off-guard. Before he could whip open the door, he heard a voice say timidly, “Uh, it’s me. It’s James.”

 

Steve opened the door and yep, there was Bucky. Well, James, today.

 

Steve wiped at his face. “Wh-what are you doing here?”

 

“You celebrate Christmas. I remember.” He pulled a small box from behind his back. “Sorry for coming unannounced. I didn’t think it through. Christmas morning meant something, I think...” Bucky’s eyes went somewhere else. Steve didn’t know what to do here; stand naked and wait, or walk around and risk shocking Bucky out of wherever he was, potentially causing a major problem. The problem was solved when Bucky laughed. He twitched and he laughed.

 

“Do you remember...heh...your Christmas in ‘31?”

 

Steve grinned. “You mean the one where we were thirteen and you snuck into church with me and Ma? And you—“

 

“And I made you spit out your wine.”

 

“During the busiest mass of the year. Thanks again for that.”

 

“Oh, really it was no trouble.”

 

Steve snorted and walked around James to the drawers where he grabbed his clothes. James sat on the bed and waited, the box still clutched in his hand.

 

“Any...plans today?”

 

Steve shrugged. He planned on crying, eating soup alone, and then going to Bucky’s at three. “Read,” He said instead. “Probably call some of my friends.” All two and a half of them.

“How ‘bout you?” Steve asked.

 

Bucky shrugged. “No work today. I was probably going to sleep all day ‘til you would come over.”

 

There was a pause. “We could...” Steve asked tentatively, “...hang...out?”

 

Bucky nodded slightly. “That’s...fine with me.”

 

They were both under-reacting, and they knew the other was under-reacting, and for once Steve wished Tony was there to break the tension.

 

“I don’t really know the city, so...”

 

“And I don’t really like the city,” Bucky responded as he flopped on the bed. “Let’s just stay in your swanky hotel and order stuff on your swanky hotel menu, and watch stuff on your swanky hotel television, and—“

 

“No more, Barnes.” Steve rubbed his forehead. The other man snickered.

 

Steve was still bare ass naked under the cotton towel, clutching his clothes in his hands. Bucky had seen him in less thousands of times, but things were different now.

 

He cleared his throat and changed in the bathroom.

 

Is anything at all the same? Besides the sun and the moon and the Earth?

 

***

 

Bucky held out the box when he came back out. “I found it in a box when I was bombing up some Hydra fucks.”

 

Steve opened it and there they were—his dog tags. “Buck—“

 

“It said your name, so I assumed Hydra took it from you.”

 

Steve’s chest tightened.  _I gave these to you, Buck. Don’t you remember? Yours are in my nightstand right now, and I hold them every night._

 

“Thanks, James.”

 

***

 

Steve liked Bucky’s taste in the 21st century. Buck ordered what he called “Romania’s best” on the menu, which included things like steak, burgers, and mashed potatoes—lots of mashed potatoes (not very Romanian, but very Bucky).

 

Steve was shocked (he shouldn’t have been) when Bucky spoke fluent Romanian over the phone to order. It was really cool, Steve admitted to himself, despite where and how the language was picked up.

 

Then again, Bucky had always been full of surprises. One time, when Steve was eight and Bucky was nine, they walked into a bakery and Buck started conversing with the old lady at the counter in Hebrew; it was a little halting and Bucky didn’t know some of the bigger words, but Steve was amazed. But he didn’t say that.

 

“Do you ever have to spit after ya talk like that?” He had asked instead.

 

Bucky had laughed. “Not really. Do you hafta spit after  _you_  speak?” Steve had hocked a loogie into the gutter to make Bucky laugh again.

 

This new Bucky also liked soap operas. He pretended not to be emotionally invested, snickering at the mushy parts and making fun of the acting, but when the family dinner episode came to an end with a speech from the widow (?), he was sniffling. He pushed Steve off the bed with his metal arm when Steve raised an eyebrow.

 

And then they started flipping through the channels.

 

And Steve knew they had  _those_ types of shows and movies out there, but he never watched them. He would get panicky and go on a long run, try to escape the flashbacks. Sam called it PTSD.

 

Steve wasn’t calling it anything, he was ignoring it.

 

But Bucky stopped channel flipping right in the middle of that fake gunfire, the men in camo in the desert, the tanks. The fake blood splatter, the poor acting as someone dies— _you never forget the face of the man who dies in front of your eyes. Never. It’s there at night, tattooed on your eyelids. It’s not some wincing and manly crying._

 

But it didn’t matter how different the war scene was, how shitty the effects were, Steve and Bucky were sucked into themselves. Someone threw something at the television—the remote? The screen still flickered, flashing images of a mother weeping, music swelling, funeral drums...

Steve tore the television from the wall and the plaster crumbled. He crushed it in half like folding together a piece of paper.

 

He was panting, but he knew that he didn’t overexert himself. His limbs felt tingly. He needed to run. He needed to hide.

 

He focused his attention on Bucky instead, who was twitching and grunting and pulling at his hair.

 

Pushing away the water filling up his chest, Steve kneeled in front of Bucky on the floor. “Hey. Buck?”

 

Nothing.

 

Steve took a deep breath. “James?”

 

Still twitching, grunting like an ape, and tugging. It all looked so painful.

 

“Sergeant Barnes.”

 

His hands loosened and his eyes opened, empty. “12557238. Sergeant Barnes, James Buchanan. 12557238. Sergeant Barnes...”

 

He continued like a broken record and Steve wanted to cry. It was like the first time he saw him after he left Brooklyn. Bucky didn’t revert back to Hydra, but this wasn’t a good place, either.

 

Steve took another heaving breath, trying to distract from the prickling in his eyes. He touched both of his palms to Bucky’s cheeks, and instantly two hands, metal and flesh, wrapped around his wrists.

 

And stayed there.

 

And stayed there.

 

And Bucky bit his lip. “My name is James Buchanan Barnes.” His lip quivered. Tears rolled down his face with abandon.

 

“Buck,” Steve said tentatively. Should he have said James? What if—

 

“S-Steve.” Bucky looked into his eyes, and he started crying harder, and he let go of Steve’s wrists to wrap his arms around his torso. “Steve. Oh, Steve.”

 

The blond clenched his eyes shut and pulled Bucky closer, so that he was basically in Steve’s lap. He pressed his face into Bucky’s metal shoulder and sobbed, and Bucky did the same. They detached reluctantly when the room service came for food, but wrapped back around each other to pick at it.

 

The lady who delivered stared at the television on the ground right up until Steve shut the door in her face.

 

***

 

Tony called.

 

“Cap! I hear you’ve been havin’ a party in Romania, if the bills are anything to go by.”

 

“Tony,” Steve walked away from the bed where Bucky was cutting up the steak angrily. “I’m sorry. I’ll reimburse you—“

 

“Stop it, you wound me,” Tony replied dramatically. “Think of it as your Christmas present. Kidding. I got you something better for when you get back.” He paused. “And when is that, exactly?”

 

Steve rubbed the back of his hand and glanced at Bucky before stepping over the broken TV to the bathroom. He plopped onto the toilet seat. “I don’t know. I’m not really sure what we’re— _I’m_ doing.”

 

Tony hummed. “Sam misses you but won’t call because he doesn’t want to “hover.” His words. Call him and he’ll help you work out your shit.”

 

Steve rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the support. Merry Christmas, Stark.”

 

“Murry Chrysler!” He hung up.

 

“Weirdo,” Steve muttered before walking back to the room.

 

Bucky was gone. He can’t say he didn’t expect it.

 

He called up Sam.

 

“Steven Grant Rogers, you sonuvabitch.”

 

“Hey, Sammy.”

 

“Don’t pull that bullshit with me, man. Tony told me you’ve been in Romania.”

 

Steve cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. Spontaneous vacation.”

 

“Mmhmm.”

 

He sighed. “Tony...Tony found Buck. He found him two months ago.”

 

“...and I’m guessing he just told you and felt bad so footed the bill.”

 

“Uh. Pretty much actually, yeah.”

 

“But it’s Christmas! You love my mom’s turkey! She loves you! You’re her favorite white dude!”

 

“Tell Fatima I said sorry, and I’ll come over to help with the leftovers.”

 

Sam chuckled. “You mean vacuum them all up so my mama can have more room in her fridge again.”

 

“Why do you think I’m her favorite white guy?”

 

They laughed. Sam asked, “What’ve you been up to? How is he?”

 

Steve didn’t speak for a while, trying to summarize three days of emotional whiplash. “Uh. I’m staying in this nice hotel that Tony got. Watching television.” He glanced at its remains with a little bit of remorse. “I usually go over his house at three every afternoon, but he stopped by today.”

 

“At your hotel?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“On Christmas?”

 

“You know it doesn’t matter, he is—was— Jewish.”

 

Sam made an appraising noise. “Never mentioned that in the history books.”

 

“Wonder why.”

 

A pause. “Is he...stable?”

 

Steve laughed. “I don’t fucking know. Am  _I_ even stable? What the fuck am I doing here, Sam?! I’m fucking stuff up is what. Fuck!”

 

“Calm down, Steve.” Like flipping a switch, Sam became Therapist Sam. Steve started pacing. He focused on the rhythm of his steps. “Don’t read into things too far. Keep yourself grounded in the present. Take some deep breaths.” Steve rolled his eyes, but when he complied, the ball of energy in his chest lessened. “There we go.” Sam waited. “Now, do you have a goal?”

 

Without thinking, Steve replied. “Be with Bucky. Be happy.”

 

“What about short-term goals?”

 

Steve took deep breaths. Focused on breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. “Sam,” he said, “I—I don’t know. I’m here. I...want to help Bucky.”

 

“What about New York? Do you wanna come back?” Sam asked.

 

“Why? You miss me?”

 

“Yes,” he conceded, “but that’s not my point.”

 

“I...no,” Steve finally replied. “I don’t really. It hasn’t felt like home in a long time.”

 

“What is home supposed to feel like?” Sam asked. He knew the answer. He always knew.

 

“Belonging,” Steve replied anyways. “A place—“ a person, “—that doesn’t make me feel out of touch.”

 

It was quiet on the phone for a minute, just the sound of Steve’s breathing and the crackle of the phone connection. “Um,” Sam said, “I guess I’d better go.”

 

Steve cleared his throat. “Okay. Bye, Sam. Love you.”

 

“Love you too, brother.”

 

***

 

Steve slept fitfully that night. His brain wouldn’t stop thinking, about Sam, about New York, about Christmas presents for the team.

 

About his mom, about Christmas in  _his_ Brooklyn, about Bucky throughout his life.

 

At this point he would usually go for a run, but he didn’t know the city well enough and, besides, he was too warm in his bed. Even though it was big, and empty.

 

And Steve was sad. He had always been sad; growing up in the Depression, dealing with all his ailments, fighting assholes who couldn’t be decent for one second. The war, the ice, the future. Most of it was a shit show. The people that made it better were few and far between.

 

And he had Sam and Tony, and a few others (Thor is nearly obsessed with him). But Bucky, Bucky and his Ma, they would always be at the forefront. There since the beginning, crucial to his life as breathing. And one crumbled in front of him day by day, and another was snatched in an instant.

 

Now he had one part of his true heart back and he was never letting go.

 

Not even if it killed him.

 

***

 

The clock blinked three-oh-seven AM. Steve’s bed dipped. There was a finger on his nose, a quick pressure there and gone again.

 

“Hey,” a raspy voice said. The bed shifted as the person twitched and then settled himself under the covers.

 

“You know, Buck,” Steve grunted annoyingly, “I thought we agreed on three PM.”

 

He could physically feel the eye roll being directed at him. Bucky ignored him and scooted closer on the bed, his front pressed to Steve’s right side. He then slung his flesh arm over Steve’s chest and smushed his face in Steve’s shoulder.

 

Okay, then.

 

Steve was weirded out, but not enough to stay awake for more than two minutes.

He really smelled strongly of plums...

 

***

 

In the morning, Bucky was still there. He was sitting at the edge of the bed scraping mud out of the grooves of his boot with a rusty pocket knife. “Good morning,” he said in a raspy voice.

 

Steve sat up a little straighter, leaning back on his elbows and squinting from the sunlight streaming through the window. “Hey.”

 

“You snore.”

 

Steve choked on a bit of air. “Uh—“

 

Bucky continued, closing his knife and stuffing it in his pocket—did he sneak into Steve’s bed fully clothed in his civvies? “You didn’t snore when you were smaller. But when you got...big...” Steve raised an eyebrow and Bucky rolled his eyes, “you sounded like a chain saw. Woke me up nearly half the time.”

 

“Yeah well, you drool,” Steve replied eloquently. Then he looked down at his shoulder and there was no stain that he had come to expect from sleeping with Bucky.

 

“I learned not to.”

 

Steve wanted to ask questions like, “They even focused on small stuff like that?” and “Do you have all known locations of those bastards?” but he kept his mouth shut.

 

“We used to...sleep in the same bed often, didn’t we?”

 

Steve froze—his throat, his lungs got tight, his hands quivered underneath him.  _This is it._ This is the moment Steve knew would come, after Romania and the metal mug and the television and all the messy things in between.

 

He can’t say he wasn’t anticipating it.

_Did Bucky remember him? In the way he claimed he always would, ‘til the end of the line?_

_Did he love Steve the same way?_

_Would it even matter, if he decided to have nothing to do with Steve?_

 

“...Yes.”

 

Bucky nodded. “And we did this...for warmth?”

 

“...Sometimes.” Steve wanted to be honest. He hated lying, even if it would spare his feelings and avoid Bucky’s eventual reaction, good or bad. Buck could always pick out his lies anyways.

He turned full-body towards Steve on the bed and was now sitting cross-legged only two feet away. His eyes were searching, almost desperate for a particular answer.

 

Steve was afraid he didn’t have the right one.

 

“And when it wasn’t for warmth...?”

 

Steve faced Bucky head-on, because Steven Grant Rogers wasn’t a fucking  _coward._

 

“Because we loved each other.”

 

Bucky swallowed, and Steve determinately ignored the bob of his Adam’s apple (it used to be one of his favorite of Bucky’s features to draw). “How.”

 

“How did we love each other?” Steve’s heart was breaking, but he didn’t let on. Bucky didn’t remember?

 

Bucky simply nodded, not trusting himself to speak—to  _breathe_.

 

Steve rubbed his eyes with one hand and sighed, looking down at the sheets and then back up to Bucky, eyes prickling but trying so strongly to remain. “We loved each other like we were the end game, always. Friends, lovers, soul mates. Everything. We were everything to each other, Bucky.”

 

Steve could barely speak, his voice got quieter and quieter.

 

Bucky at first stayed stock-still, almost like a statue; this worried Steve. It wasn’t the answer he was looking for, he guessed. His stomach turned.

 

And then Bucky leaned forward. He moved a little towards Steve and leaned his head toward the blond’s. His movements were slow, calculated.

 

Time stopped.

 

A flesh hand caressed Steve’s cheek, brushing the growing blush spreading through his face and chest. The hand tilted and turned his face, and the whole time Steve was jello, completely malleable, because his eyes were entranced by Bucky’s, which were staring back at him in wonder, amazement, worship.

 

Happiness.

 

Even when their lips brushed, Steve couldn’t bear to close his eyes because he didn’t want to miss one second of the joy Bucky secretly held. But then his eyes burned and he had to close them, and tears spilled out, and he didn’t even know if they were happy or sad.

He just pressed his lips closer to Bucky’s and became enveloped in light.

 

***

 

“Where...where do we go from here?”

 

“Wherever you want, Buck.”

 

He didn’t speak for a long time. Then, “Brooklyn.”

 

***

 

They took Tony’s private jet, Bucky’s minimal belongings fitting in his backpack and a corner of Steve’s suitcase. Tony decidedly did not come, and the pilots stayed in their cockpits, so the two super-soldiers played gin rummy and slept on each other’s shoulders.

 

Bucky would look out the window from time to time, nothing but his eyes betraying any nervousness. Steve didn’t respond except to squeeze his hand, Bucky squeezing back tightly.

 

When they landed, Bucky took out his gun. He got out of the jet slowly, keeping Steve securely behind him. When the coast was clear, he secured the gun in some secret fold on his pants and looked bashfully at Steve. He twitched. “Hate getting out of planes, too.”

 

Steve nodded and smiled a little. Then he said, “Well, time for you to see where I’ve been living for a while.”

 

“Make sure I don’t find any clothes from your other...special friends...” Steve snorted and Bucky continued, “because I  _will_ track them down, stalk them, and compare them to myself constantly.”

 

“No one but you, Buck.”

 

He tried to hide how Steve’s honest adoration affected him and he mostly succeeded.

 

There seemed to be no one in Stark Tower, and both Steve and Bucky were a little unnerved. Steve asked the air, “Jarvis, where is everyone?”

 

“Who’s Jar—“

 

“Sir,” a mechanical voice said, “The residents have left to give you two some space to settle down.”

 

Bucky started shooting at the wall. One, two, three times.

 

Steve jumped. “Buck!”

 

“What is that?!” He asked frantically, looking around for the source.

 

“It’s—it’s a robot in the walls.”

 

“Actually, Captain Rogers—“

 

“Huh?” Bucky’s stance loosened a little. The gun was still raised at the wall, but not as high.

 

“Tony Stark made an...” Steve searched for the right words, “...artificial intelligence...that speaks throughout the building to help around.”

 

“I beg your pardon, but I do more than—“

 

“What?!” Bucky looked exceedingly concerned. “You mean like when Zola—“ he twitched and huffed, “—was talking through those computers?”

 

Steve shrugged. “I—I think so. I’m not good with all the tech today.”

 

Bucky furrowed his brow but nodded. “Robot,” he said to the air, “Don’t talk unless I can see you. Or I’ll start shooting again. Sooner or later, I won’t miss.”

 

The air stayed silent.

 

***

 

“Steve,” Bucky muttered. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

 

Steve blushed. “I know it’s pretty big, but—“

 

“First, that’s what she said. Second, I’m not talking about the size, I’m talking about the stuff.” They both dropped their bags at the door. Well, Steve dropped the suitcase; Bucky held tight to his backpack.

 

Steve frowned. “What stuff?”

 

Bucky landed on the couch with an ‘oomph.’ “My point exactly. How long have you lived here?”

 

Steve sat on the couch next to him and looked down at his hands. “Two years.”

 

Bucky sucked air through his teeth. “Yikes.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Steve lightly shoved his arm. “Shut up, I don’t care about that stuff.”

 

“No,” Bucky argued, “you’re just too mopey and lazy to spruce the place up.” He twitched.

 

“What, you know about home decorating?”

 

“Romanian HGTV is fascinating.”

 

“Fine,” Steve muttered. “I’ll ‘spruce it up’ later.” He got up and held out his hands for Bucky to grab, dragging him to the kitchen and sitting him down on the chair at the island. “First, let me make you some food.”

 

“Careful, Rogers,” Bucky grinned with his head in his hands, leaning on his elbows. He watched Steve—his Steve—move around the kitchen. “I might just get used to this.” He huffed, but his smile stayed.

 

“Good,” Steve grinned back.

 

***

 

Steve woke up sweating. His throat hurt. He was panting. The clock read 2:13 am. Bucky was hovering over him, concerned.

 

“Steve?”

 

The blond shot out of the bed and wiped at his face. “Sorry. I’m fine. Go back to sleep.” He went to his drawers and pulled on his jogging clothes in a hurry. Bucky didn’t listen, instead putting on his own gym clothes and his backpack.

 

Steve glared behind him as he walked out of the apartment, Bucky in tow. He ran down the stairs and Buck kept pace. “I’m not talking about it, you know.”

 

He could hear Bucky’s smile. “Believe me, I know.”

 

Steve ran all the way to Central Park and pushed himself in an attempt to break away from Bucky—he wanted to be alone, to work off the memories of his nightmare—but he kept pace and even passed him at some points before Steve got back in front, fueled with spite.

 

The winter New York weather made their throats dry and their noses tingle, but they were sweating by the time they stopped back at the Tower. Steve took the elevator and leaned against the side, his chest lightly heaving.

 

After running for three and a half hours, he was a little winded.

Bucky assessed Steve, his eyes scrutinizing to pick up on potential bodily clues as to how he was feeling.

 

They got back into the apartment and Steve went straight to the shower. Bucky opened a few doors and found a bathroom of his own, scrubbing up. When he got back to the master bedroom, the water was still running in the shower. He went under the covers and grabbed a book Steve had been reading from the nightstand.  _Twilight._ Hm.

 

He read the first forty pages in a few minutes (serum, and also the book was pretty good) when the door to the bathroom opened. Steve came out with his matching striped pajamas and crawled into bed, his eyes staring down.

 

He scooted closer to Bucky, who put the book down and wrapped his arms around him.

Steve kissed him lightly on the lips, then rested on his chest, listening to that strong heart beating

 

Bucky rubbed his back and let him cry quietly, combing metal hands through hair the color of grain and kissing his forehead from time to time.

 

The sniffling subsided, Steve’s breaths slowed, and he started to snore. Bucky smiled a little before moving his guy around to get more comfortable. They made a pair of parentheses and Bucky stared at that beautiful face until he, too, fell sleep.

 

He dreamt of kissing.

 

And he woke up to kissing.

 

***

One day, Bucky asked for Steve’s dog tags back. Steve smiled and grabbed them out of the night stand.

 

Right next to Bucky’s.

 

Both of them wore those dog tags every day.

 

For the rest of their lives.


End file.
